


Ecstasy of Fumbling

by denorios



Series: WW1 AU [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, WW1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denorios/pseuds/denorios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WW1 AU: March 1918, Ansauville Sector</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecstasy of Fumbling

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partly inspired by the famous photograph of British soldiers blinded by gas, all standing patiently in line. The title and the quote in the LJ cut are both taken from Wilfred Owen's poem 'Dulce et Decorum Est'. And thanks and love, as always to farad.

He'll deny it later, of course. Weeks later, when Vin is back with the platoon and Chris can look in his eyes and see Vin looking back, when he can turn and find Vin at his shoulder once more, quiet and sure and so utterly _necessary_ , Chris will deny that he was ever afraid, that he panicked, even for a moment.

There are nearly fifty men under his command, he'll say, and Vin is just one of them. And yes, they're close; yes, they're friends; yes, he was worried, obviously he was worried. But he'd feel the same for any of the men, he'll say. No man is more important than any other in his platoon, even Chris himself.

It's a half-truth at best, but he wants it to be true, he _needs_ it to be true.

And Vin will let it go. Vin will lean against his shoulder and smile like he knows exactly what Chris is thinking, will joke with Buck and JD, talk quietly with Father Sanchez, and the platoon will stand that little bit taller when Vin returns, and Chris? Chris will lie and Vin will let it go.

Because the truth is he does panic. That first moment in the trench, with Buck standing quiet before him, hands spread wide and helpless as he explains about the ambushed patrol, the gas and the alarm and Vin's mask leaking, Chris panics. The old sensations return, the sweat standing out across his brow, his breath coming low and rapid, his heart jerking irregularly, his hands shaking, and all he can think is 'not Vin, not Vin, please God, not Vin'.

The communication trench back to the rear is more than a mile long, and he runs, his heart in his mouth, running, shouldering men out of the way, ignoring the shouts and curses behind him. And when he can't find Vin at the advanced dressing station the feeling intensifies until there is no thought in his tired mind but Vin, no word on his lips but Vin, and he can't find him, he _needs_ to find him.

The harassed stretcher bearers snap at his questions and all he can see are men in uniforms and bandages, and any one could be Vin, any one of these forlorn men waiting so patiently.

There are men standing in line for the ambulance to the field hospital, one hand on the other's shoulder in an obscene mimicry of Blind Man's Bluff, turning aside only to cough or vomit; men laying on propped-up stretchers being washed down with soapy water, alkaline douches suspended on wires irrigating nose, eyes, ears; men sitting in the mud, quiet and still; men screaming in agony as medics apply zinc ointment to burns: all the human detritus of a gas attack, but no Vin.

He walks up and down the lines, calling Vin's name, scanning each face intently for any sign of familiarity beneath the thick swathes of lint bandages. Some lift their heads or ask who he's looking for, their damaged voices painful to the ear. But the name Vin Tanner means nothing to them, seems to mean nothing to anyone but Chris, and it's everything to Chris, it's everything, it's _Vin_.

They've never talked about it, never dared contemplate a life after the war. Chris has seen too many men dead on the wire, men with families and lives, hopes, plans, dreams, all lost in shellholes and dugouts and trenches; and he won't think about life after the war, he won't tempt fate.

But sometimes, in his quietest moments, when it's just he and Vin, and he can rest his arm across Vin's back, Vin's shoulder pressing against his, when he can feel Vin close beside him, safe and warm and _alive_ , sometimes he thinks about bringing Vin home to New Mexico, to the ranch.

In his mind Chris sees the empty corrals, the broken blackened frame of the ranch-house, the fields gone to seed, and he knows he can stand it with Vin there beside him. He can face the empty rooms filled with memories and ghosts, he can bring the ranch back to life as he can't bring his family back, but not without Vin. Not without Vin.

Chris is three paces past before the rasping whisper registers, before the sound of Vin's voice penetrates the pounding of blood in his ears. Something hard and painful throbs in his chest and he turns, and how could he have missed Vin, how could he have walked past him, how could he not know him when every curl on his head, every bone and muscle and sinew is as precious to Chris as his own?

"Vin," he says, swallowing hard against the choking lump in his throat, and Vin raises his hand slowly.

The relief is overwhelming, like alcohol in his veins, and for a moment Chris' vision blurs and he has to blink rapidly. He instinctively reaches for Vin, needing that contact, the reassurance of touch against the disbelief of his eyes, but Vin flinches before he can touch him, and Chris pulls back, eyes drawn to the angry raw skin on the back of Vin's hand, the blistered fingers.

Vin wears an ill-fitting sergeant's uniform, a replacement, Chris realizes - of course they would have stripped him of his contaminated uniform as soon as he was brought to the station - and he like the others has a thick white band across his eyes. His hair is wet and slicked back against his skull, and the water combines with the tears oozing slowly from beneath the bandage to track down his cheeks.

"Vin," Chris says again. "Buck told me. Is it...are you-" He stops, unable to continue. The urge to touch Vin is so strong, and he has to clench his fists at his side to resist swiping his thumb across Vin's cheekbone, curling his palm around the vulnerable nape of Vin's neck.

"Can't see," Vin murmurs, and Chris winces at the sound, the harsh rasp in Vin's chest, the sudden coughing fit that overtakes him. "Only temporary, they reckon. Few weeks at the field hospital, I'll be fine."

Chris lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding, and beneath the bandage Vin's lips tug in a quick grin. He lets go off the man standing in front of him, gropes blindly for Chris with his uninjured hand. His fingers snag in Chris' tunic and he tugs at it insistently, pulling at Chris until he has to step in to Vin, his body blocking them from view.

Vin lifts his head, his nose brushing against Chris' cheek. This close in, Chris can smell the gas on Vin's skin just beneath the harsh scent of the carbolic soap, and he heaves a ragged shaking breath. Vin was lucky, as lucky as any man gets on the western front. He's seen men killed by gas, seen them choke and struggle for every breath, seen them drown in their own lungs, eyes wide and frightened and begging him to help, and there is no help, nothing that can be done but watch and wait.

He watched Kavwell die that way, sat beside him in the casualty clearing station for hours that felt like days, helpless and lost. He was just a boy, scarcely old enough to shave, and he clutched at Chris' hand with the desperate strength of the dying and the damned.

His death haunted Chris' dreams for weeks - more than once he woke to find Vin leaning over him, eyes bright with concern, combing his hand gently through Chris' hair - and he knows when he closes his eyes tonight he'll see Vin. He'll see Vin fighting for each breath, foam flecking his lips as he gasps and chokes. He'll see Vin's face turning blue, see his eyes roll back in his head, see his hands twitch and jerk as the life drains out of him...

"Stop thinkin' on it," Vin whispers, and Chris can't help but smile at that, at the way Vin always seem to know his thoughts before Chris himself does. "I ain't dead and I ain't dyin'. And I don't plan on doin' either any time soon," Vin adds.

There's movement up ahead them, muffled curses, the sharp rattle of the ambulance engine grinding into life. One of the orderlies shouts a warning to the blinded men standing quietly waiting, and the line sways as the first of the men is helped into the back of the ambulance.

Vin jerks abruptly at the sound, his fist clutching tighter at Chris' tunic. Chris brings his hand up to cover Vin's, entwining their fingers, and squeezes reassuringly. Suddenly he's shamefully relieved that Vin can't see him, can only sense the fear in his eyes, the way his heart hammers in his chest.

"I'll come see you when we're relieved," he promises, and Vin turns his head, blind eyes still instinctively seeking Chris'.

"You stay alive, Larabee," Vin says, his voice unexpectedly firm beneath the painful rasp, and Chris knows beneath the bandage Vin's blue eyes are hard and determined. "You damn well stay alive, you hear me?"

"I'll try," Chris murmurs, his voice no louder than Vin's. There's no promise he can make, and Vin knows that. They've been fortunate, he and Vin, but luck is in short supply in the trenches and it runs out so easily, so quickly. A step to the left, an inch to the right, a shell, a splinter, shrapnel. He can't promise Vin anything.

"Chris-" Vin chokes, but there's an orderly at his side, unfeeling hands grasping his arm to help him into the ambulance. Chris shoulders the man aside roughly, slanting a sharp glance in his direction, and the orderly blanches and steps back, eyes flitting from Chris' silver rank bar to his set face.

But Chris' touch is gentle as he helps Vin step up into the back of the ambulance and he can't help but run his hand across Vin's damp head, down the side of his neck, as he helps him settle. Vin leans into the touch, reaches up as Chris steps back, catching at Chris' wrist with more luck than intent and holding him in place, half-in and half-out of the ambulance.

"I'll see you soon," he says, stressing the 'see' and Chris huffs a quick laugh, his lips twisting in a bitter grimace with little humor in it. He steps down, fingers trailing across Vin's palm, chest tightening at the way Vin's hand hangs suspended in the air for a few seconds.

"I'll be okay, Vin," he says softly. "You take care of yourself."

He wants to climb back into the ambulance with Vin as it sputters away. He wants to sit by his side, close enough that Vin can feel him with every movement and sway of the ambulance. He wants to whisper to him through every pain-filled breath, every cough and choke, so that Vin can see what he sees.

It's not enough to know that he's safe behind the lines, warm and comfortable in a soft bed, tended by pretty nurses and calm doctors; he needs to see him. Vin laughs at Chris' controlling tendencies, teases him about needing to be master of every situation. It's what makes him a good officer, he knows, and his men value his protective nature, but he can't protect Vin now. The thought cuts off his breath for a moment, and he has to look away, away from the sight of the ambulance bumping off down the rough muddy track, taking Vin further away with every breath.

The thought of returning to the trenches without Vin is intolerable: the whine and crash of the shells in his ears, the lingering smell of gas in his nostrils, the dirt and the mud and the rats and Death at his shoulder every second, every minute. His every thought is straining down the road with Vin, blind and broken and stronger than Chris has ever been.

He can't help Vin now, but there are fifty men who still look to him, fifty men who need him to be strong, to stand upright and unafraid, to be the example of everything they are and fear they will never be.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.


End file.
